in sincerity

poetry? can’t recall
what did it mean, not to myself - but to others.

did it mean anything to anyone? because i don’t remember the pain
only the weight of now.

what comes here more and more are what i’ve coined as my ‘verbal doodles’ - fragments and random scenes with no start or end. just in image, a feeling or idea that is scribbled and usually not given second thought.

please excuse my intellectual debasement

with every window and door shut tight, most sound drifted well away, muffled by brick and mortar. the recycled air now becoming stale, giving silence volume - a viscosity - like the mounting pressure of a deep sea dive.

i sit and consider - i consider standing, but complacency is comfort - i forget what i intended. has it only been a few minutes, or several hours? the white wall is playing with my sense of time.. and my sanity. a fly lands on the wall well above me to sit and stare back, to await my eventual demise and lay it’s eggs in my rotting carcase.

looking back at the empty screen, at a line blinking at me daring me to speak. i’m afraid i’m quickly running out of words - or never had many to use - i sit and consider my next words carefully, the fly on the wall expects them to be my last; i can see him rubbing his hands together, probably licking his lips.

fuck you.

From time to time - I see, and consider, my own response to ‘why I write’. Especially so in these last few weeks. I feel torn between two [or more] versions of myself, the romantic in me wishing to spend the hours of the day writing every observation, idea, and irreverent theory that finds itself in my grasp. While the rationalist in me ‘knows better’, and while he hates the society he is borne to, understands it is inescapable - for all the altruistic, rebellious ideals one half spouts, the other cannot cope with or maintain them.

So each part of me asks the other, ‘why do we write? - why continue the struggle?’

Perhaps it has become more than art for me, more than a form of self-expression. It’s become my own meditation and confessional - at times even a form of prayer - a bid for salvation from the devils I’ve already sold my soul to. Simply put, it’s a way to understand myself. The rationalist and romantic have agreed the only thing we can change is our self, and as such make our efforts [despite their futility] to know.

I write because it’s the only thing I can be sure of. It’s the only god I believe in. The only thing I can turn to, to express any emotion in any extreme. I write because without it - I’d truly be at a loss. I could be stripped of anything worth a damn - but I’d still have my word.

This product here does the exact same shit as everything else you have - hell, I bet you already have this exact thing in your life, but here’s the thing: you need to buy this one and I’ll tell you why.

See this one’s a bit more shiny, a bit more sleek, it’s faster, indestructible and more powerful than what the last guy told you about his shit! That guy was a faggot, you listen to me when I tell you, you need to buy this shit right here it’s the exact same thing but guess what? It’s sexier - and you like ‘sexy’ right? Of course you do - take a look at how sexy you would appear to the world by looking at this half naked blonde chick that looks nothing like you holding this thing I’m selling you. (Pst, hey buddy; just between you and me - she puts out for guys who buy this shit.)

It’ll only cost you the rest of your natural life as you submit to a soul crushing routine to pay it off - but hey! on your death bed, you’ll reflect on all that time and know it was worth it.

All too often teachers end up having to teach manners and respect to their students. By the time we are ready for a true education, for true lessons, we’ve graduated to a point that compels us to be model citizens with steady jobs, paying off a mortgage I’d like to sell you.

i need to work. i feel the need to work - for myself, not for monetary gain. simply to work, create, likely destroy or lose interest in the project, and repeat. i need to type out a thousand pages of utter shit to reach that one page to keep.

i’m searching for my voice. im trying to tune it, muck around with it to know what doesn’t work and what doesn’t work. (yes i intended to say that twice, twat.)

maybe i need to trip and talk to a lobster.

im trying to get rid of excess words - it’s all been done though, every possible combination and structure is simply another influence flowing through me. but then again maybe that’s the point. to pen what’s already said, in our own voice.

i don’t know the point. i never will. and i will fight this hobby/passion of mine every step of the way. every word, every sentence is a fight to rend out at the least, a comprehensible thought. i am struggling and i dont know why.

how many nights did you hear me howl? how many times have you helped me back to bed after praying to the porcelain gods? i lost count - but really, i’ve never felt the need to keep count. why should i expect anything more from you, than what i already know?

when i’ve gone most of my life disconnected from the world around me - to feel mended in the sense that, while i’m not perfect i am beyond any semblance of the boy i was; to feel mended, is in itself a strange and new thing i am still coming to grips with.

and i say mended because i will never be fixed. a broken machine never is.